


Build And Gild Your Own Cage

by TriffidsandCuckoos



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Arguing, Avatars, Depression, During Canon, Fluff and Angst, Harold they're fear avatars, M/M, Needlessly specific Britishisms, Neurodivergent Jonathan Sims, Neurodivergent Martin Blackwood, POV Martin Blackwood, Self-Esteem Issues, Slow Burn, The Lonely - Freeform, Time to invent some Lore, Working Out My Feelings Through Fic, post-159
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:49:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26258200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TriffidsandCuckoos/pseuds/TriffidsandCuckoos
Summary: Jon sleeps and the Archivist dreams of a shore empty of fear; the Lonely reaches for Martin but something else is dragging him out. On their journey north, both of them have a long way to go. The world was already changing.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 17
Kudos: 31





	Build And Gild Your Own Cage

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes we work through things by writing fanfic that barely passes for allegory. This started as a niggle at the back of my mind about avatars and here we are plunging into the abyss.

The Archivist dreams of an empty seashore. Of the view from a ship that will never again see a crew, over an ocean devoid of life. The salt in the air preserves him. The wind howls alone. 

There should be someone here. Absence is not loneliness. More than that: by every rule of his dreams, every spot of this beach should be fully inhabited, bustling, loud and shrill. His ears should ache with the noise of it. Or perhaps he should find a sprawling mansion where each corridor and doorway echoes with the threat of someone lurking just out of sight. Waiting for the one step to shatter the fragile bubble of yourself.

The Archivist is alone, but he is not afraid. There is no fear here. He does not like it: this illusion of food, this paper drawing of the tangible. He must wait for the vision to move on to a real nightmare; must stand and sit and walk alone, tongue searching for the smallest crumbs. This is just a space. Uninhabited. Why even bring him here? The Archivist does not Know why this place exists inside him, or why he must roam its borders.

Jon's fingers grip the ship's railings as he thinks: _’Finally.’_

\---

The tannoy sounds out its two-tone warning, before an incomprehensible female voice drowns out Jon's words.

Martin asks, "Sorry, what?"

Jon rolls his eyes, although Martin knows he isn't angry at him. It's not some new bedrock of confidence and self-actualisation that tells him that: he's had Jon frustrated at him often enough in the past that he can recognise the differences. There's no iron to his eyes; his mouth pulls to the side without launching into insults. Those memories tick over inside Martin's head without any emotions attached to them. He thumbed through them so many times in the last year that they've faded away.

When the announcement ends, Jon tries again. "I need tea, do you want anything?"

Oh. Martin preferred not knowing. He wrinkles his nose. "You're buying _shop tea_?"

"Unless you're hiding a kettle somewhere on your person that I don't know about." Even though it's ridiculous – Jon clearly means it as a joke, look at him, almost smiling – Martin tugs at his coat. He couldn't fit a kettle under it, not without it showing. He wouldn't steal a kettle, either, not even office supplies. (Don't joke about it, Martin.)

Realising the silence is stretching, Martin blurts out, "That stuff's disgusting, Jon – disgusting _and_ overpriced."

"That's as may be, but I still want some." Jon's eyebrows raise a little, softening his face. Christ, imagine that: Jonathan Sims, soft. Martin wouldn't believe it but ‘I see you’.

"If your standards are that low, can't you just get it on the train? Cheaper than what Costa charges, anyway." The train milk is disgusting too, and Martin's always made himself a thermos if he's travelling far enough to think he needs something. That requires preparation, though. Not something Jon's great at, impulsive as he is.

"Well, maybe I don't just want tea." Jon tilts his head. "Seriously, Martin, what do you want? My treat. I can get some sort of...cake, if you like?" The way his voice goes up, as if he's honestly forgotten what sort of food cafés serve.

_Statement-givers, mostly._

Martin swallows down the thought, bitter and sour at the same time. There's nothing in Jon's face to say that he Knows what Martin's thinking. Still, why exactly does Martin think he's some sort of expert in reading people? Jon's face doesn't move the way you’d expect, not when he isn't angry, and Martin only knows how to keep people happy and away from him. More the latter these days, of course.

The guilt makes him recoil. "I don't need a _treat_ , Jon."

Jon hesitates, hand finding the strap of his backpack. "I – I didn't mean to – "

Martin flaps his hand, warding him off. "No, I – " He stops and takes a deep breath. "I'm fine, Jon. You want a tea, get a tea. I'll just – " Looking around, he spots a free space on the benches opposite the departure boards. "I'll be over there, okay?"

He doesn't storm off. 'Storm off' suggests he's angry, and he's _not_ , not at all. He's giving Jon his space, and it’s fairly obvious Jon’s going on his own because otherwise he wouldn't have asked what Martin wants. And Martin doesn’t want anything, honestly, so there’s no reason for Jon to spend money on him unnecessarily. He's got a water bottle and he might sleep on the train, and the train loos are awful (thank Christ this is one of the stations where the loos are free).

It all makes sense and that doesn't stop his stomach twisting by the time he's sitting down, swinging his bag to the floor and constantly conscious of all the space he's taking up. How someone else might want this space; how his bag's in the way. He pulls it in closer to his legs with his feet.

There's no reason to feel guilty. None. But Jon seemed...hurt? Startled? Christ, what does it matter, Jon isn’t him. Jon is his own person – a person who Martin swears didn’t care this much about him, definitely not enough for this to be anything but weird beyond all reason. What is Martin even doing here?

He forces himself to focus on the departure boards, finding their train and checking once again that they don't have a platform. That's why they're waiting, when Martin can never settle until he's in his seat and everything's out of his hands. When he's done everything he can.

It's not fair. Jon barely said anything to him. This is all Martin's doing, _Martin_ tying himself up in knots. Or maybe it _is_ Jon: Jon's presence making Martin like this, with his questions without any clear answers. A Jon who smiles at him, saves him, and the longer they’re away from the Institute the stranger it gets, as he tries to square this Jon with the boss who used to all but hiss at him.

It's _horrible_ , and it's been so long since Martin's thoughts have gone this fast. He clenches his hands together and looks at the yellow writing on black boards and maybe he rocks just a little. No, he shouldn't feel guilty. If anything, he should feel _angry_. Anger's easier. This isn't on him.

No. 'Easier' is not feeling anything. He shouldn't feel anything. This is a non-event. This is nothing, and he should feel nothing about it. This is just hurting himself for no reason.

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Lets it out slowly, along with everything else. Exists as himself.

There's a school trip passing by, teenagers with high voices and memories of never being in any special friendship groups. A bunch of fans who've already started drinking before the game, cheering over nothing in particular. A man and a woman pressed together like this is a film where nobody else cares, practically devouring each other's faces. Businessman on his phone; student on her phone. The tannoy starts up again, something about Platform 12. A dog starts barking; a child starts crying; people talking and talking and talking, all around him.

All Martin can see are the people, everywhere. He doesn't want them there. They're all so self-absorbed, off in their own worlds, and they just don't give a _fuck_ about anybody else. The world's for them and them alone, and it's so selfish and so unfair that they get to be so secure in themselves and leave nothing for anyone else. That they get to be free and not tie themselves up in knots any time they speak.

He wants...

Martin wants to be alone.

Abruptly, softly, the silence echoes.

Slowly, Martin opens his eyes.

The station hasn't gone, and neither have the people. There's something of a relief to that, he supposes. He doesn't actually want to be _alone_. But everything has gone so mercifully quiet, even though when he squints he can see mouths moving, phones flashing. Funnily enough, it doesn't occur to him at first that he might have gone deaf. The moment he thinks that he _should_ think that, he knows it's nonsense. It's the same way you know you're not deaf on a suburb street at ten o'clock at night, or outside a pub as the dawn breaks. The marvel of the quiet.

He exhales, sitting back. His bag tips to the side slightly, but that's okay. He can't bother anyone like this. How can he, when they're all still here? No one's been sent away. If anyone's removed, it's Martin, and that's what he wants. A small space for himself. Safety. A kindness.

"Martin?"

He frowns. The voice is odd, echoing like they're underwater. Wait, that's not right. You can't speak underwater. So he must be thinking of... _fog_.

"Martin!"

Martin gasps with the shock of the cold, a second before a hand grabs his shoulder, and that leaves him without any breath at the sheer weight which suddenly crashes down on him. Just like that, it's as if everyone in the station is staring at him. Martin can _feel_ their awareness of him, pressing down and in, forcing him into a space which is too small for him. As he looks around, wild-eyed, nobody seems to be watching, yet all of a sudden the noise cuts in. Nothing gentle about it, just a sharp explosion of voices and phonecalls and greetings and arguments.

Before he's conscious of what he’s doing, he's curling forwards, hands covering his ears. Fingers twining in his hair, scratching at his skull. This is his body, that's okay.

There's still a hand on his shoulder. It's not moving away. The thumb starts to brush back and forth, very slightly, like shifting from foot to foot.

Carefully, hoping the warmth in his face isn't enough to colour it too much, Martin raises his head. Briefly he gets an impression of something huge, something with too many eyes and a mouth that devours that which he cannot comprehend as solid; then he sees Jon, looking at him with so much concern and biting his lip far too hard.

For want of anything to say, Martin sticks with what he knows. "Sorry."

"Where did you go?" Jon doesn't let go of him, although Martin is also aware that he can hold on a lot tighter than that. Leaving the Lonely, he half-expected to see Jon's handprint overlaying his own palm.

Martin tells him the truth. "Nowhere. I was here." It isn't compulsion, which presumably Jon knows too. "You mean you didn't Know that?"

"I'm trying not to." Jon's index finger twitches slightly, jumping up and down. It reminds Martin of watching him work through his theories, explaining the logic that was fastening his paranoia in place because everyone had to be an enemy. Clicking his pen or tapping a rhythm only he could follow. "I can...choose not to. The same way I can choose not to do, well." The corner of his mouth twitches. "Other things."

Only then does Martin realise he's still clasping his own hands together in his lap, too tightly. Quickly he reaches up to cover Jon's fingers. Jon blinks down at the touch. "You're doing great, Jon. Really."

"Hmm." Martin can feel Jon's fingers flexing, before they still and hold him closer. "Debatable as that is, Martin, that's not actually what's concerning me."

Right. "I said I didn't go anywhere."

"No, you certainly looked like you were still here," Jon says slowly. "Most of you, at any rate."

Tempting as it is to ask whether he'd just been a floating head or something, Martin instead glances downwards to the red cardboard cup in Jon's other hand. "You actually went through with it then?"

Jon startles, and Martin lets him go. There's something so endearing about watching him rubs the back of his head, somehow never getting caught in the tangle of black and silver hair knotted together, averting his gaze as if this is the thing in his life he should feel guilt over. "Like I said, I wanted tea. We all make sacrifices." He clears his throat. "I did get some shortbread as well, but I thought we could have it on the train. In case we get...hungry." And he goes a little distant.

"They have shortbread in Scotland, Jon," Martin tells him. "They actually have _loads_ , it's one of their things. Like, I don't know, clan tartan."

"That's a Victorian invention," Jon says, without the bite of how he used to correct Martin's follow-up research. "And they might have shortbread in Scotland but we're not actually there yet. What else did you have in mind: afternoon tea? Digestives?"

Martin laughs a little, finally standing up and heaving his bag onto his back. "Yeah, when you put it like that, us English are pretty shit at sweet things."

"Speak for yourself. I used to have jalebi every week."

"Okay, show-off.” Martin has no idea what jalebi is, only that it sounds delicious. “You know what I meant."

"Obviously."

\---

Somehow, Martin manages not to say 'oh thank Christ' out loud when they find two seats next to each other on the train. Technically they had reserved seats, only there was already a family sitting in them and Martin was ready to insist on walking the length of the train and if necessary sitting on the floor next to the bikes rather than ask them to move. He didn't phrase it quite like that – more a pointed pressure on Jon's bag to get him to keep moving – although that didn't stop Jon giving him that odd smile at the end of the carriage, when Martin had pushed on. Really, it was just to save that poor father from facing Jon at his most acerbic and self-righteous. Martin knows how horrible it feels to be on the receiving end of that.

There's a bit of an awkward stand-off when they have to work out what order to sit in, until a lady in an immaculate trouser-suit clears her throat loud enough to wake the dead and Martin ends up shoving Jon in first in sheer panic at getting in the way. Jon catches himself on the window with a startled exhalation. "Sorry!" Martin says, to the woman and to Jon, and then again, "Sorry!" at Jon alone as the woman carries on past.

Jon rubs the side of his face, a tic that's survived despite him not needing his glasses anymore. "It's fine," he says.

"You can say when it's not," Martin insists, taking advantage of a break in traffic to take a step back to manhandle his backpack into the overhead storage. It doesn't take any thought to grab Jon's from where he's managed to deposit it on Martin's seat and squeeze that into place as well. Uncomfortably he realises just how much lighter Jon's bag is, and wonders whether he grabbed too much when they went by his own dusty flat. This isn't exactly supposed to be a holiday.

Jon says, "I might have wanted something from that, you know."

"Hmm?" It isn't that Martin is ignoring him. He is listening, whilst also looking miserably at their two bags squashed side by side.

"Martin." This time Jon speaks firmly enough to call Martin's attention back down. "It's four hours and twenty-two minutes. Do you think I'm going to play Angry Birds the whole time?"

"I don't think anybody plays Angry Birds anymore," Martin says. "Honestly, I was sort of hoping you were going to sleep."

Jon raises an eyebrow and waves his cup of overpriced awful tea.

"Okay, after you've drunk that. Don't want to think about what that'll taste like cold."

"You know," Jon says with a slow smile as Martin sits down next to him, "I had no idea you were this much of a snob."

Martin's gasp is only slightly exaggerated. " _You're_ calling _me_ a snob?"

"Yes, I am," Jon says.

Shaking his head, Martin says, "You're unbelievable."

"I do try." Jon takes a sip of tea and Martin feels quite ridiculously vindicated by the grimace which crosses his face.

Because he's a gentleman, however, Martin doesn't comment on it at all. "That doesn't even make sense, Jon."

"You don't make sense."

Okay. It isn't just Martin's imagination, is it? Jon's sense of humour is notoriously obscure and ill-timed (or, if you asked Tim, 'completely fucking absent'), but he _does_ seem to be trying not to smirk. Trying and failing, the longer the moment lasts.

"Oh Christ," Martin says, "I'm trapped on a train with a small child."

"And this is why you should be more worried about me having nothing to do."

\---

They do talk for the first hour or so as the train finally breaks free of London. (No doubt Jon could say exactly how long it is. Martin rather likes the comfort of a conversation where time loses its meaning). They don't go over anything in particular – not the Lonely or Jonah or the Institute or Peter or any of it – the conversation meandering back and forth between completely inconsequential things. Occasionally Martin suddenly becomes aware of what he's doing, how this isn't the sort of life he has and the squirming sensation he's learnt to associate with talking to other people like this. Then he remembers that he doesn't have to join the Lonely and the relief is as terrifying as finding a cliff edge right in front of him.

Jon's hands twitch in his lap as he talks. Martin knows that if they touch on one of his specialist subjects (as the person he thinks of as Sasha called them, and he hates that it's in his vocabulary), Jon's hands would start to fly about as if writing the words in mid-air. He's tempted to bring up a couple on purpose, except he isn't sure if they still are things which interest Jon. Whether it would be too patronising to do so; too jarring to wrench the conversation over like that. Surely people have done that to Jon before?

Jon and his twitches and odd ill-timed ridiculous jokes are all things Martin's used to, if not directed at him. What he has absolutely no preparation for is the way he notices Jon's blinks starting to get more and more exaggerated; his speech starting to slur slightly; his sentences drifting into the surreal (in a structural sense – the topics never stay that normal for long).

"Jon, are you...?" The word is right there in front of him yet it feels too bold to reach for it.

"Am I what?" Jon asks, head turned and pressed into the back of his seat. In his lap, his hands have gone still, like he's forgotten about them.

Martin taps his own hands together lightly. "Are you...sleepy?"

Jon's eyebrows draw together, slow enough that Martin can actually watch it happen. "Martin, I'm not a toddler."

"That's really not an answer to the question and you know it." No, the longer it hangs in the air, the more convinced Martin is that he's right. It's honestly kind of amazing. In the last couple of years he's seen Jon tired to the point of incoherency and paranoia, but he's never seen him so visibly close to slumping over. Even when Jon's body had clearly hit the reset button – that brings back memories of having to stay in the archives, investigating a stray light only to find his boss sprawled across the desk with the recorder still running – it tended to be sudden and painful.

Apparently oblivious to Martin's past experiences, Jon says, "It's thirty-three minutes past two in the afternoon, Martin. It's too early to sleep."

"Oh, like you actually sleep at night?" There had been a reason Tim had joked about Jon being a vampire, right up until they researched Trevor Herbert's statements. "Jon, we're here for a while. Have a nap."

Jon's face wrinkles up in disapproval. "I'm not _having a nap_ , Martin. That's useless and pointless and – "

Raising his voice just a little, Martin asks, "What else do you have to do?"

Jon blinking at him, mouth still a little open, brings to mind words most people would never associate with him. Words like 'adorable'. "I – I could do some research – "

"From the comfort of your train seat?"

"I've got my phone – "

"You're going to type 'horrifying apparitions' into Google? Is there really anything about the Institute you haven't already found online? For the matter," they haven't been mentioning it but by this point it seems stupider not to, "do you even need to 'research' anymore? It sort of sounded like you already know most things. On the tapes."

For some reason, all that annoyance suddenly goes out of Jon like he's been punctured. "Right. The tapes." He looks down at his hands, then Martin's. He does another one of those slow, sleepy blinks, then widens his eyes as if that will somehow counteract it.

"Jon?"

"Keep forgetting," Jon says, slurring just a little. "That we've – That we haven't spoken much. Before now. Lately."

Because of Martin. Neither of them says it but it still hangs there, audible over the quiet rhythm of the train. Martin seizing handfuls of social connections and taking a knife to them. The thing that Martin never wanted to admit to himself, until everything hurt so distantly that it didn't make any difference: that at first, just that small nasty part of him had wanted to hurt Jon. Just a bit. Just to make him know what it was like.

"Get some sleep, Jon," Martin says. "We've got time."

\---

Jon sleeps like the dead, sprawled in his seat. More than once Martin sees one of the train staff giving him an odd look as they pass by with the drinks trolley or checking tickets. He can't say he blames them: with the shadows under his eyes, the tightness and unhealthy grey tinge to his skin, Jon looks a breath away from the hospital. Presumably that's where he should go, if not for the part where they don't know what any scans would show of his insides. What does a human body look like, when it's adapted to eat fear?

Of course Martin's disappointed. Not that Jon's sleeping, obviously, but that he didn’t collapse onto Martin to do it. He shouldn't take it as some sort of personal slight, except it's sort of hard not to feel that chill down the side of his arm where Jon could slot into place. Martin knows he's the sort of shape that's comfy to sleep on. He always has, even before he had a weekly routine of trying to escort Tim or Sasha home. He wants to be... Oh, fine, he wants to be _helpful_. Didn't take long for that instinct to come back. Or that compulsion, he supposes.

Nothing catches his attention on his phone. Reading the news has always made him feel a little ill, and now he knows just how many things don't get reported, the stories seem so petty and insignificant. Like there aren't fear entities trying to tear their way through into the world.

Like Peter Lukas isn't dead.

Martin's breath catches, just a little. Then he thinks it again.

Peter Lukas is _dead_.

It's only now that the words are there inside his head that he realises he hasn't been thinking about it. Hasn't let himself think about it? He isn't sure. He knew Peter had died in the Lonely, felt the sea-change, yet it hadn't meant anything because nothing in there actually mattered. It was all mist and fog, so who cared what happened even a foot away from you?

 _His only wish was to die alone._ A fact in there; maybe a tragedy out here, when you think about it. He doesn’t want to think about it.

Clearing his throat (completely pointless when interrupting his own thoughts, Christ he's ridiculous), Martin manages to pull his phone out of his trouser pocket without somehow blundering over into Jon's seat, and starts doing what everybody else on the train does: nothing much in particular. Logging into the WiFi just to refresh pages and bounce between articles as if any of it matters. Funny how this was so much more engaging when he had a real job to do. Funny how he stopped as being Peter’s assistant started meaning something more, telling himself that it was just as well because he had so much else to do.

Wincing at wasting the time (he would have died for such a long span on his own before, looking after his mother, when every time he wanted just five minutes to read or write he knew what an awful person he was), Martin flicks over to a notes app. There's some old poetry in there, he vaguely recalls, somewhere underneath all the meeting memos. He opens one and then closes it one line because, oh, it is terrible.

He's got some poetry on his Kindle app. Maybe that's what he needs. Something familiar, calming. There's Keats in there, one of those big anthologies you can get for a quid. Usually he hates reading on a screen but any books are in the bags overhead and he doesn't want to move. Although he sort of does. No, he has nowhere to go.

It actually works, for a few minutes. Some of the phrases ring much truer now than they used to, he finds, and he's mouthing along with some of them.

_‘My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains_

_My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk…’_

A few rows behind him, a baby starts crying.

Which is...fine. Babies cry all the time. Think of the poor mother – no, _parent_ – who must be feeling so embarrassed right now. No doubt they’re trying to shut them up as quickly as possible. You should feel sorry for her.

The baby carries on crying. Every time Martin thinks he's tuned it out, it hits some new note and his concentration cuts out again, a flare of annoyance looping instantly into shame. 

At one of the table seats, a discussion is getting louder and louder without actually devolving into shouting, none of the people involved wanting to admit they're arguing. It's halfway through already, he has no context for any of their constant pronouns, nor does he care about weddings and whether ‘he’ did ‘that’ with ‘her’. Only now it's all his brain can process, apparently.

Someone's FaceTiming near the front of the carriage, yelling as if they can’t just hold the phone closer. On the other side of the aisle, a girl is playing her music so loud he can hear it despite her headphones. Somewhere a child is playing on an iPad with the sound on, judging by the beeps and whistles and chimes.

Martin tries to focus on the page. Not that it is a page, of course: just a white screen, squashing text into a form that ignores anything beyond the facts of the words. He taps the screen automatically to see the percentage read and instantly taps it again. Nobody will stop talking.

He closes his eyes and it's the volume turns up, filling up his head. He can't think anymore. His hand tightens against his knee and he can feel the train rumbling on, the slightest jolt magnified through his whole body. When's the next station? How long does he have to stay here?

He doesn’t want to be here.

This time the silence is a unsurprising, blessed relief. He exhales slowly, feeling his mouth curve, savouring all of it. The ringing in his ears at the suddenness fades quickly, muffled by the fog. When he opens his eyes, the carriage is subdued and empty. His phone is still in his hand but he doesn't even look at it. He doesn't have to, and he doesn't want to anymore. Everything is just blissfully quiet; even the train barely seems to be moving. He could just sit here, with all the best bits of travel. He can breathe easily again.

Something is holding his arm.

There's no terror in the Lonely, nothing loud enough for screams, so Martin isn't quite sure what sound he makes as the awareness screams inside his head. He definitely makes one though, the numbness not yet sunk in further than his skin. The sensation is sharp, scratching, but most of all impossible to ignore. The physical touch doesn't matter compared with how deeply and intimately he knows that it’s there. There isn't a hand; there's the idea of being grabbed.

Not wanting to look down at it, he turns his head instead.

A giant eye stares back at him, blazing bright, and now Martin does try to scream.

\---

Jon’s blinking, bleary-eyed. "M'rt'n?" he slurs, still slumped in his seat and weighed-down with sleep. It should be adorable. Right now, Martin isn’t sure whether he should think that.

Martin opens his mouth. He closes it again. The sound is back, all around them, laughing and talking and pinging as if nothing happened. And nothing did, he supposes. Whatever happened, it happened to him alone.

Jon drags a hand across his face, yawning audibly. "M'r't'n, wh't – " Another yawn interrupts him, jaw cracking. He scrunches his hair in his fist; shifts in his seat to try to focus on Martin. He looks achingly human. "Martin, what's wrong?"

There's a chill laid over Martin's skin. Maybe it's from the Lonely. Maybe not. "Jon, what did you do?"

Jon's eyebrows draw together. "I – Martin," he sits up in his seat, the lines of him starting to harden from their liquid state, "I just woke up. What happened?"

"Were you dreaming?" He must have been, right? Is that what it's like, for everyone else, all the statement-givers? Not Jess Terrell, of course, but maybe the others? "Jon, did you see me?"

Now Jon's eyes are clearing, a bit too much. The green's starting to flicker in them. "No, I – Why would I see you?"

"Where were you, then?" It's sharper than Martin intends, but he needs to know.

"I – " Jon hesitates. That green tint brightens and dulls, slower than a human heartbeat. "I'm not...entirely sure."

"That's not comforting." If the Archivist doesn't know, then who does? Well, possibly Elias, only that's really not an avenue Martin wants to go down under any circumstances. "Were you here? On the train?"

Wincing, Jon tries to stretch until he stops at the first series of clicks from his shoulders and spine. Martin hears every one like a gunshot. (He remembers when that was an overused simile he learnt from books.) "I wasn't anywhere, really. There wasn't – " He shakes his head and now he looks at Martin properly, with that steadiness and firmness that's locked onto him from the start.

"Martin. What happened?"

\---

It's awkward, to say the least. When is it ever not? Martin writes poetry – used to, anyway – but he's never been able to explain himself and maybe that's why his poetry is so shit. It doesn't help that he _knows_ Jon won't like it, the idea of the Martin slipping away again. That makes the words stick in Martin's throat, and he'd do everything possible to talk around them except it's sort of key to why Jon woke up to Martin accusing him of having done...something.

"Martin, I've never taken a statement from you," Jon says again, voice rattling and deepening with annoyance. Blink and Martin could believe it's 2016 all over again. "That's how the nightmares work, they – I'm trapping people into reliving their worst fears over and over again, whenever they sleep. That doesn't fit anything you're describing."

Jon will hate it, but Martin still feels like he has to say, "You didn’t mean to trap them." Sure enough, Jon waves it away with a scowl and the mood somehow dips even lower. Shouldn't have said anything. Should have let it go. Except Martin _can't_ , not when he knows Jon will carry on beating himself up, clawing at himself at every opportunity with so few openings to stop him. Jon's fingernails are a picked-over mess, his lips chapped and scabbed, and sometimes he winds his hair so tight around his finger that the skin pales. At least if he's angry, Jon isn't doing any of that. Maybe Martin can pretend that that was his plan all along.

Jon's tapping his leg, irregular, as he stares at the back of the seat in front. "Doesn't make any sense," he mutters, and, "Nothing new is ever good," and then he stops and looks at Martin. "Is it what you’re afraid of?"

"Excuse me?" Martin’s too surprised to begin to lie.

"The Lonely. Here and at the station."

Martin splutters. Dissembling isn’t easy when someone’s actually paying attention to you. Maybe that’s why it comes out so defensively: "Why would I have to be afraid?"

Jon tilts his head, just a little. “That’s the point, isn’t it? How it works?” When Martin apparently doesn’t respond the way he should, Jon says, “I'm just making a deduction – research the old-fashioned way, remember?" His voice is strangely coaxing, as if this could be a time to reminisce. Martin can only sit there in confusion, which still isn’t what Jon wants. Instead, Martin has to watch that softness bleed away, and Christ knows what’s going on in Jon’s head – his mind always goes so _fast_ – but the green is starting to flicker in his pupils again, the signal thickening and juddering with every thought. 

"Why are you – "

Jon stops. Martin can't help the way his eyes widen. They both heard that: the static in the air. Jon's mouth works, his throat swallowing the words down before the compulsion could take hold. They're sat right next to each other and yet Martin has that sense of the space between them opening up, and for once he doesn't think it's him.

"It's okay," Martin says softly. Jon tucks his shoulders in and sits back, crossing his arms tightly.

Martin's fingers flex against the rough denim of his jeans. Feels weird, being back in them after all those suits ("Can't have an assistant looking like I found him in the street," Peter had said, as if there was nothing between casualwear and homelessness). Comfy but confining at the same time. Dressing up in a costume, where he's playing himself.

"We should get off at the next stop."

That brings Martin's thoughts to a screeching halt. "What?"

Jon nods, agreeing with himself. "This is new. If the Eye is trying something else, with you, we need to find out what. We can't risk taking it up to – with us." His face twists at the correction, like he's swallowed something vile. "Go to ground. Figure it out."

The question which makes it out of Martin's mouth first is, "What about our tickets?"

Jon looks at him blankly. "What about them?"

"We bought tickets to Edinburgh, Jon.” Awkward fumblings at the machine, not sure whether they could use cards, not sure whether Elias would want them caught or hide them from the police. Always impossible to know exactly what Elias is capable of. “We've got at least another hour to go."

"I am aware of that," Jon says slowly, "which is why we should get off at the next stop."

"And catch the next train?" It’s not exactly changing their trail, but maybe Jon Knows something about the train.

"What?" Jon’s acting as if Martin’s starting speaking Mandarin – not that that would make much of a difference, of course. "Well, I suppose it does make sense to keep moving. We can catch the same train tomorrow – "

"But we've got tickets for today."

"And we can get tickets for tomorrow," Jon says, drawn out like he's talking to a particularly idiotic child.

"What, just like that?" Martin scoffs. "We paid for those, Jon. How long do you think we'll last if we just throw money away?"

"We're not 'throwing it away', we're just changing our plans."

Martin can’t say that it ‘just slipped out’, or that he doesn’t realise what he’s saying. Not when his voice has gone so hard. "You mean you're changing our plans."

Jon's mouth opens but, miracle of miracles, nothing comes out. Only for a moment, of course, but it gives a stab of malicious victory inside Martin's chest. His skin chills.

No, he's not going to apologise. He can feel it behind his lips, clawing to get out, but he won't let it. He won't.

Jon's jaw firms, his face settling into a scowl. Any moment now he might launch into an indictment of Martin's research skills (as if that's the skill you need in _archiving_ ). Martin tenses, ready for whatever he comes out with. Jon can't have everything his way. He can't just snap his fingers and expect Martin to do whatever he wants. He can't –

Abruptly Jon's shoulders slump. All that anger in his face, in his body, just...goes. Evaporates into the air. He's looking at Martin and suddenly he just seems sad. "Fine," he mutters, and then turns towards the window, tucking himself in close with his arms wrapped around himself. It's like he shrinks into himself.

Devastated, Martin can only stare at him – at his back, or the reflection of his face in the mirror where he's resolutely avoiding eye contact. Nothing so unusual there, at least from before the Archivist got involved, only now it feels so deliberate.

Past him, outside, there might be fog in the fields. Or it might just be Martin's eyes. No, now that he focuses, it must be inside him, because his stomach feels heavy and his head is pounding and the rest of him might just float away.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, and Jon curls in tighter.

**Author's Note:**

> Quote from the opening of 'Ode to a Nightingale' by Keats
> 
> Nothing motivates writers better than comments, so please leave one if you like this.


End file.
